Wrath (The Faithful and the Fallen Book 4)

by John Gwynne

  Corban and his companions were running now, veering towards Nathair, their warriors along the western treeline moving with them, making to bar Nathair’s path to the gates of Drassil.

  Then more figures were pouring onto the southern plain, spread in a scattered line behind Nathair and his troops. These newcomers were mounted on horseback, a dozen, more, their riders trailing white cloaks. Black figures on foot followed not far behind them.

  ‘Lothar and his Kadoshim,’ Calidus said.

  The King of Helveth galloped to Nathair, his mounted honour guard about him, all the while more warriors on foot emerging from the forest, staggering and disordered, but soon massing together.

  There must be a thousand of them, at least, and more are still coming.

  So Corban attacked them, routed them from the road, but the survivors have managed to make it through the forest.

  Corban and his warband were sweeping south across the plain towards Nathair and Lothar, the numbers appearing to be roughly even, though with every heartbeat more eagle-guard and white-cloaks were stumbling out from the forest.

  ‘They will need our help,’ Uthas said.

  Rhin looked to Calidus, who nodded, and she turned to look down into the courtyard and shouted.

  ‘Conall, your waiting is over.’

  CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE

  CORBAN

  Corban ran across the plain, men shouting battle-cries, bellowed orders swirling behind him, the thunder of thousands of feet, Balur’s voice rising above all else, but all Corban could focus on was Nathair, sitting on his draig, a longsword in his hand, twisting in his saddle and yelling orders to his warriors. The eagle-guard behind him were locking into a shield wall, already wide and deep, many of Lothar’s white-cloaks forming up on his flanks. But Nathair was out in front of them, vulnerable.

  Well, not exactly vulnerable – he has a draig.

  An image flashed through his mind, of his da, fallen to his knees in the feast-hall of Dun Carreg, Nathair standing before him, plunging a sword into his chest.

  He grabbed hold of Storm’s collar and urged her on.

  Storm opened her gait, moving from lope to run. Corban was pulled from his feet, one fist gripping the leather collar around Storm’s neck. He swung his legs and ended up on Storm’s back, felt the wind whipping his hair, dragging tears from his eyes. Behind him the sound of his followers lessened, Storm opening a gap between them as she flew towards Nathair. They were two hundred paces away, a hundred and fifty, Storm almost flying.

  Then white-cloaked riders suddenly filled his vision. They had broken away from the black-clothed Kadoshim that were following them, all of them coming between him and Nathair. A man with black hair and a golden circlet in his hair was riding straight at him.

  Lothar, King of Helveth.

  Corban snarled in frustration.

  Come between me and my vengeance.

  Storm crunched into Lothar’s stallion, her jaws fastening about its muscular neck and her body swinging to crash side-on into the horse’s flank. Corban used Storm’s momentum to throw himself into Lothar, ripping the man from his saddle before they both slammed into the ground, rolling and tumbling in a spray of turf.

  Corban rolled away from Lothar, rising to his feet and dragging his sword free, and ran at the King of Helveth, who was desperately trying to draw his own weapon.

  A horse and rider rode between them, the warrior stabbing a spear at Corban. He swayed away, caught the shaft in his wolven claws, with a twist of his wrist locked it and dragged the warrior forwards, stabbed his sword up into the man’s armpit, raked his claws along the horse’s flank, sending it leaping forwards, the rider toppling backwards from his saddle.

  Lothar was still standing the other side, one of his shieldmen dismounting to give his King his horse.

  Corban surged forwards, ducked the shieldman’s sword swing and slashed at the man’s face with his wolven claws, sending him stumbling to one knee. Corban stabbed him in the throat, then grabbed Lothar’s belt as he tried to swing into the saddle. Lothar snarled and attacked him.

  He was good, his attacks solid, economical, well balanced, but Corban was better, and a cold rage fuelled him. Corban harnessed it, letting it fill him, not control him. He blocked four blows from Lothar, deflected the fifth wide and back-swung his blade across Lothar’s chest, making him stagger. Corban strode after him, stepped inside a desperate lunge at his head, punched Lothar in the face with his hilt, sending him crashing to the ground, and stabbed him two-handed through the chest, his blade bursting out through Lothar’s back and into the earth behind him.

  A yell of fury made him spin and he saw one of Lothar’s mounted shieldmen bearing down on him, sword raised, only to see him sent flying from his saddle, a hammer-blow slamming into his chest.

  ‘You’ve got to stop running off like that,’ Farrell grunted at him, breathing hard, then Gar swirled past them, iron clashing as he grabbed a warrior’s reins and chopped at the man’s head. Another white-cloak fell to the ground before Corban, one of Laith’s daggers sticking from his belly.

  Corban grabbed Lothar’s circlet from his brow and mounted the nearest riderless horse. It danced on the spot a moment but Corban leaned low, patting its neck and whispering in its ear, and it calmed.

  Most of Lothar’s shieldmen were down, Gar, Farrell and Coralen making short work of the few still alive. Nathair was still rallying his warband, waiting to gather as many stragglers from the forest to him as possible. They had grown formidably, eagle-guard and white-cloaks combined together numbering perhaps over a thousand strong already.

  He could see Veradis bellowing at his warband, his men gathering into a shield wall of their own, Balur and his iron giants with their long axes looming to either flank. On this side of Veradis’ shield wall Krelis was breaking into a loping run, with his warband of black and silver a mass behind him, and behind them were Tahir’s men of Isiltir. They were running at the Kadoshim that had arrived with Lothar, at least three score of the black-eyed warriors hurling themselves towards Krelis and his men.

  Men and women burst from the treeline, a hundred or so in dark chainmail, swords drawn, raised high over their heads, running into the plain. For a heart-stopping moment Corban thought it was more Kadoshim running straight at him, but then he recognized Akar, Kulla behind him, and saw that they were angling across the field to engage with the Kadoshim.

  Corban kicked his mount into a canter, pounding the turf between the two massing warbands.

  ‘Your King is dead,’ he yelled, kicking his horse into a gallop to surge past Nathair’s draig and the shield wall, showing them the blood-splattered circlet, repeating his proclamation, yelling it at the top of his voice, then hurling the crown into their massed ranks.

  Arrows whistled and flitted from the treeline, and white-cloaks started to fall.

  Corban was about to turn and ride back to Krelis’ flank and lend his sword to the battle against the Kadoshim when a hand closed on Corban’s arm. It was Gar, sitting on a dun mare.

  ‘It’s time,’ the warrior said. ‘The plan has worked.’

  Corban looked at the battle spreading upon the field, saw faces that had followed him, felt a weight of responsibility for them, and a surging desire to fight, to kill his enemy and lose himself in the simplicity of battle. His eyes fixed on Nathair, and an overwhelming urge to kill him flared bright in his belly.

  ‘Look, the plan’s worked,’ Gar repeated, pointing at the gates of Drassil, which were swinging ponderously open, riders pouring out from the fortress in a flood.

  Calidus has taken the bait!

  ‘Come,’ Gar said. ‘We can end this, but we have to go. Now.’

  Corban’s eyes found Nathair.

  He is not the real enemy, just another pawn in this game of angels and demons. Calidus is the one that needs to die.

  ‘Ban,’ Gar said, tugging his arm.

  ‘You’re right,’ Corban said, and together they rode from the field.
<
br />   Corban met Brina in the forest north of Drassil’s gates, at a makeshift hospice she had built. Many were there, ready to tend the wounded; injured warriors were already filtering in. Brina was standing with a handful of men, three of them giants. Corban recognized Alcyon and his son Tain, but there was a new one, bigger and bulkier than Alcyon, his head shaved in the same way as Alcyon and Tain, a thick strip of hair running down the centre of his head.

  Brina was tending a man, her fingers resting on his throat. It was Maquin, standing with a few of Javed’s Freedmen. All of them looked exhausted, sweat-stained and close to collapse, but Maquin was worse. His eyes were dark hollows, his mouth twisted in a bitter snarl, as if he mocked and hated death, but yearned for it at the same time.

  ‘Fidele’s dead,’ Brina said quietly as Corban and Gar reached her.

  ‘Let me go,’ Maquin said. ‘I am going after Lykos.’

  Corban looked at Maquin. His voice was a monotone, and there was a tremor in his hand. He swayed slightly, as if the effort of remaining still and upright were too much.

  Fatigue.

  ‘I suspect if you wait a little while he might come out onto the plain and fight,’ Brina said. ‘If the battle goes as we hope. Might be easier than trying to get through those gates. Perhaps use the time to eat and drink. You don’t want to find him and then fall flat on your face.’

  ‘That won’t happen,’ Maquin mumbled, ‘but some water would be good.’

  Brina nodded to Alcyon, and the giant led Maquin to a log, sat him down and went in search of water and food.

  ‘So,’ Brina said, looking at Corban. ‘We need to go.’

  ‘Aye,’ Corban replied.

  Footsteps drummed and Coralen came running into the glade. Dath was with her, Kulla as well, then Farrell and Laith a dozen paces behind.

  ‘Corban, this . . . really is . . . getting . . . ridiculous,’ Farrell panted, leaning against a tree. ‘It’s making me angry. Can’t you just stay in one damned place and fight?’

  ‘It’s a busy day,’ Corban said with a shrug.

  ‘Is this it, then?’ Dath asked. ‘The plan?’

  ‘Aye,’ Corban said. He looked at them all, a still moment in the midst of carnage and blood and fear. ‘You don’t have to come with me.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Ban,’ Dath breathed.

  ‘Aye,’ Farrell grunted. ‘As if we would do anything other.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Listen to your friends,’ Coralen said. ‘And shut up. We’re coming.’

  Corban nodded. ‘All right, best be doing it, then, before the battle’s over.’

  ‘Is it far to go?’ Farrell asked.

  ‘A little short of half a day on foot,’ Coralen said.

  Farrell looked miserable, even about to cry.

  ‘Which is why I’ve borrowed some horses from Edana,’ Brina said. ‘Now let’s be off.’

  Farrell’s relief was palpable.

  ‘Small mercies,’ he whispered.

  ‘Do your good work,’ Brina said to Craf, who had been watching the exchange silently from a log beside them. Brina scratched his neck and threw him something slimy. He caught it and gulped it down. ‘And we’ll see you at the meeting point.’

  ‘On the old oak tree,’ Craf squawked as he took to flight.

  CHAPTER NINETY-SIX

  RAFE

  The gates of Drassil opened and Rafe followed Conall and a hundred other warriors that rode before him, along with close to fourteen hundred others. He glanced back once at the stables where he’d left Scratcher tied up. Didn’t want his hound caught up in this. He had enough to worry about.

  The din of battle was faint, a swirling eddy drowned out by horses’ hooves as they clattered into the tunnel that led through the gates and out into the open of Drassil’s plain.

  Conall rode a way ahead, then reined in and looked back up at the walls, at Rhin, no doubt, as riders spread to either side of him, gathering into a line over a hundred horses wide. Rafe guided his mount into line a few rows almost directly behind Conall. He patted his horse’s neck as they waited for the full strength of the warband to pour out through Drassil’s gates and gather behind Conall.

  ‘You’re a beauty,’ Rafe whispered in his new horse’s ear, leaning forwards. ‘Too good for Geraint. Glad I found you, and I’ll make you a deal. I’ll try and keep you alive as long as you return the favour.’

  The skewbald stallion arched his neck and stamped the ground.

  Can probably smell blood and battle. Doesn’t look as if he’s scared of it, though. Looks more as if he wants to get stuck in.

  Rafe sat up straight and tried to see what was happening.

  Battle was raging, that was clear, a mighty din rippling up from the south of the plains. He could see giants, and hear the roar of Nathair’s draig every now and then, which set his stallion to snorting and its ears flicking back tight to its head, but if anyone was close to victory or had the upper hand, he could not tell.

  We should change that soon enough, though, Rafe thought. Fifteen hundred of us charging onto their rear should set them to running quickly enough. He looked up at the sky, saw the pale gleam of sun through thick cloud. Battle’ll be over by highsun.

  Horns blew then and Conall drew his sword, saluted to Rhin on the battlements and kicked his horse on, into a trot, turning at an angle to head south.

  The host moved after Conall, there was a lurching moment when Rafe was jostled by mounts either side of him. Dry-throated fear reared in him and he wished he’d had a last drink from the water skin hanging on his saddle.

  Too late now, Rafe thought as they moved across the plain, aimed straight at the rear of the enemy warband, the drum of hooves a constant thunder, the creak and rattle of harness and mail combining into an all-consuming fog of sound. Rafe thought of Rhin’s words to him, last night during the council of war.

  A chance to redeem myself, after failing Rhin over the necklace.

  He jostled with riders either side of him, kept his eyes on Conall’s back.

  Then horns sounded from behind, from Drassil’s battlements, a discordant sound, a clamour of warning.

  The advance stuttered, Conall and fifteen hundred other men craning their necks to see what was wrong. Figures on Drassil’s battlements were pointing, towards the treeline directly west of Drassil’s gates. Rafe stared that way and saw a long line of riders emerge from the forest, a hundred horses long, at least, warriors in the grey of Ardan, Edana at their head, looking like a warrior-queen from the old tales, mail shirt gleaming, a naked sword in her hand. On one side of her rode Vonn, on the other, Halion. And behind them, more and more riders spilling from the gloom, spears and swords glinting in the pale light, hundreds of them, easily a thousand, with still more appearing.

  A long silence settled as the two warbands considered each other, misted breath from horses’ nostrils rose in the cold air, a hoof stamping, a whinny, and then Edana was shouting a command, pointing her sword and kicking her mount into a canter, the host of riders behind her spurring into motion, a great wave.

  Conall was shouting, urging his horse on, dragging on his reins to turn towards them, Rafe and the whole warband doing the same, stuttering into a canter towards Edana, who was gaining speed, her mount leaping into a gallop, and behind her a great roar went up from her warband as they joined her, the thunder of it filling Rafe’s ears, and Rafe felt his stomach clench in fear, suddenly not wanting to be here.

  Charging an enemy that were on foot and from behind was one thing, certain victory virtually guaranteed, but this – this was something else entirely, this was much more like actual battle.

  Rafe felt his horse’s muscles bunching and flexing, felt his need to run, excitement quivering through the animal.

  He’s a warhorse, all right, he actually likes this.

  Conall was pulling ahead, outpacing his fastest warriors, bent low over his saddle, sword drawn, hurtling towards Edana and Halion, who likewise were pounding ahead of th
eir own warband, a gap widening. Conall screamed wordlessly, laughing, and Rafe understood, for a moment, what men called the joy of battle as a great jolt of exhilaration flooded through him and he yelled in sheer exultation.

  And then, inexplicably, Conall was leaning back into his saddle, sheathing his sword, dragging at his reins, blowing on a horn at his belt, yelling for his riders behind him to pull up. His mount was skidding, slowing, behind him hundreds doing the same, Rafe yanked on his reins in horror, desperately trying to avoid going down in a tumbling heap, because that would surely mean a trampled death. All about him riders pulled their mounts back under control, slowing from the gallop, horses neighing wildly. Ahead of him Rafe saw Conall leaping from his saddle, even while his horse was still moving, turf spraying. The regent of Domhain was striding forwards. Rafe saw Edana and Halion slow, the warband behind rippling, and Halion was jumping from his saddle, too, marching towards Conall, and then they were slamming into each other, embracing, laughing, hugging, the two warbands coming to a halt only a handful of strides apart. Rafe saw Edana smiling.

  Halion and Conall parted. Rafe spied tears on the two brothers’ cheeks.

  Edana spurred her horse forwards.

  ‘Conall ben Eremon, is this your way of surrendering?’ she asked Conall, voice loud and crisp, spreading over the battlefield.

  ‘Let’s call it a last-minute alliance,’ Conall said, waving an arm in the air. ‘We can sort out the details later.’ He hugged Halion again, slapping his back and kissing his cheek. ‘Ach, but it’s good t’be friends again. I’ve missed you and your serious face.’

  ‘And I’ve missed your madness, you lunatic,’ Halion laughed.

  Conall looked back up at the walls of Drassil.

  ‘As if I’m going to be riding my own brother down! She never had the measure of me.’ And with that he was ripping his cloak of black and gold from his shoulders, waving it around his head and hurling it aside. All around Rafe men were doing the same. He looked at them aghast, then realized he had better follow suit.